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stretched away the old gloomy swamp, ghastly and grim, even in the noontime. As the ground was springy, he had no difficulty in finding the trail, and picking it out from the others. It struck off along the “coast” of the lake, and the young man had in all probability made his way to the log-landing, where the unknown was last seen.
He slung his gun in the hollow of his arm, and bending to the trail, went on apace. It was quite distinct, and he felt sure he could follow it on a run.
He had not gone more than fifty yards when he heard a rustle in a thicket just ahead. With the instinct of a backwoodsman he went behind a tree like a squirrel, and cocked his gun.
The rustle was not such as would be made by a bird or small animal, but was a rustle and a dull thud. This, Eben, being quick-witted, readily construed into a footfall on a prostrate log.
He remained close hid for some little time, then peeped cautiously out. An intervening thicket obscured his view. Gently stepping, he crept to the thicket and peered through.
Before him was one of those numerous small glades with which the forest abounded. This glade was bare, but he was certain he heard a footstep, and in the present unsettled condition of things he was wary about venturing out in full sight. However, as he forced his way through the thicket he saw that on all sides of the glade the surrounding trees were somewhat diminutive in size—being for the most part a young growth of cottonwoods. They were too small to afford protection to any man, and beginning to lose his slight alarm, he stepped boldly out, still on the trail.
No one was in sight. The surrounding forest was devoid of human beings. He went up to a large log lying in the open space. It was decayed, and Walter’s trail passed directly over it. In fact he had stepped upon it, as his boot-mark was plainly visible in the soft, yielding punk. But as he noticed this, another object caught his attention.
It was another and different footmark, and he could see it had no heel, and the edges were not sharply defined; he knew at once it
was the track of a moccasin.
“Hullo! Injuns?” he inquired, off his guard. “It can’t be—there are none within sixty miles. But, by thunder! ef I don’t b’lieve it is the track of one.”
Interested, he looked searchingly around for some further evidence, but to his extreme surprise he found none—it was a solitary footprint. It pointed at right angles to the trail he was pursuing, and he judged that as the surrounding ground was dry and rather hard, the owner must have passed by without leaving any other trail.
“Well—no matter!” he said to himself. “I’m on Walter’s trail—I mustn’t leave it. But, by thunder! I’d like to know where this one leads to.”
He gave a final look around, then bending again, went on, wondering. Now the ground was rather hard, but as he was on a “boot-trail,” he found no difficulty in keeping it.
Right ahead the dense thickets and soft ground came again. The moment he “struck” the latter, he started back at seeing he was now pursuing a double trail, the second being that of a moccasin; some one was trailing Walter ahead of him!
He noticed it was the same mark as the one on the log—at least it corresponded to it in size and shape. He pushed on a few paces, to see how far it continued, and if the second person was really on the track of Walter. He was, he found after going a small distance. Sometimes the moccasin overtopped the boot, as if the unknown was not desirous of keeping the trail for further use, and for every five steps of Walter, there were only two moccasin-marks; the fellow was evidently going at a smart pace.
Whoever he was, Eben was certain he was not far in advance, for just now he had heard him step on the decayed log. He pushed on, determined, as it lay in his way, to ferret out this rapid tracker, and perhaps by doing so he would rid Walter of an enemy.
He had been looking down at the trail. He now raised his head and looked around, to prevent being surprised by his fore-runner. Had he looked up a second quicker, he would have seen a form dart behind
a huge tree, fifty yards or more in advance, with a smile on his face. But he did not see it, and went on, rapidly.
He approached the tree, keeping his eye bent on the trail; he drew nearer, and the man behind the tree smiled again. He came directly opposite the tree, and the man slipped around to the other side.
Eben passed the tree, then stopped short.
“Hullo! where’s the moccasin trail? I’ve left it, or it’s left me—one or t’other.”
He went back a step or two and discovered it again.
“Hullo! here it goes, branching off by this big sycamore. Shall I follow it?”
He hesitated a moment, then resolving to pursue it a little distance, went off, following it.
Went off? not far. Before he had taken two steps the man behind the tree came up behind him and gently touched him on the shoulder.
“How goes the day, young man?” he said.
Eben turned with a cry of surprise, and confronted him.
He saw before him the strangest man he had ever before seen. A man with a deformed, hunched back, with crooked, crazy legs, with long, swinging arms, and an enormous nose. He was dressed in a corduroy jacket, and leggings of the same material, which terminated in a pair of plain moccasins. On his head was an old flat cap covered with ashes—a cap made from green wood, Eben could see. An old cloak of undressed sheep-skin was flung over his shoulders, and this, in unison with his ghastly, white face, staring, fishy eye, and straggling drab hair, gave him, to say the least, a strange appearance.
Eben was, for the moment, alarmed at his ugly companion, and did not know what to do or say. At last he stammered out:
“Who are yer?”
“No matter—for the present. I will tell you after I have done talking with you. I have come to see you on business.”
“Business? What d’ye mean?” asked Eben, beginning to become more and more surprised.
“Time is scarce. The young man and woman are in danger. I need your help. There is work enough for both of us.”
“What man and woman?”
“The young woman that was lost.”
“Ha! do you know any thing of ’em? Speak quick!”
“Ha!” yelled the man at the top of his voice. “Do you hear that?”
The faint, melodious bay of a hound came wafted to their ears. Eben knew the sound.
“I do,” he said. “It is a bloodhound.”
“Ay!” and the hunchback brought his face close to that of Eben. “It is —and he is on the trail of the young man, who has found the young woman!”
Eben saw by the earnest expression of the cripple’s face he was terribly in earnest, and that he spoke the truth.
“Then come on!” he said. “Come on, to the rescue!”
The hunchback, with surprising agility, darted away through the thicket, followed by Eben.
CHAPTER XII.
THE DEATH PATH.
Walter and Katie fled as fast as the thick brush, the constantlyimpeding grape-vines, and the soft and boggy ground would allow, but still the bay came louder and rounder to their ears, and they could but see the terrible tracker was swiftly gaining upon them.
They had gone about half the two miles which would have placed them in comparative safety, when it became only too evident they must halt and make a stand against the dog. He was now quite near, being only four hundred yards behind. The rapid pace at which he was coming proved it was their only resort—to stand and fight.
A good opportunity presented itself, and Walter, seeing it, availed himself of it.
Near by, a knoll rose abruptly, in fact, horizontally. Before it, and encircling one side of it, myriads of tough, matted grape-vines were hung, forming an impenetrable barrier—at least sufficient to repel the entrance of a man.
Walter drew his bowie, and after working energetically, soon had the satisfaction of making an entrance sufficient to enable him to pass through, which he did, followed by Katie, who bore herself admirably. Then hauling and bending the leafy vines, he soon closed the entrance so it would not be detected.
It was a rare place for a stand, and had Walter a dozen men with him, he might have withstood a hundred. Behind him rose the knoll abruptly; before him was a leafy, green, impenetrable wall of tough, obstinate, fibrous grape-vine, so thick and leafy that persons before it could not see through it.
But Walter had only his arm and weapons to depend on, and they might fail. Still he spoke hopefully and encouragingly to Katie, and
hoped for the best.
On came the dog—quite near. They could hear the bushes rustle as he darted through them, and at intervals out swelled the sonorous bay—“Hong, hong!”
Walter gently put Katie away from him.
“I want room to work in,” he said, drawing his knife.
His good rifle was at his shoulder at a full cock, aimed through the wall; in his trigger-hand he clutched the bowie-knife. Should the former fail (as in all probability it would, owing to the thick underwood) he could make a determined battle with the blade.
On came the dog, full of fiery and bloody desire. Glimpses of him were caught at intervals, his dark brown body gleaming through the copses.
Now the patter of his feet came to their ears, and mixed with them, shouts behind: the robbers were hotly following their fore-running ally.
Suddenly he appeared, coming on at a true bloodhound pace—halfgalloping, half-pacing—a sort of amble. He was only a few yards away.
Walter, taking a cool, steady aim at the hound’s breast, fired.
A confused snarling and growling was heard, the smoke hanging obstinately down, obstructing their sight. Gradually it lifted—just in the nick of time.
For, as Walter was peering through the covered entrance, knife in hand, the dog came on with a spring. He had been shot, as could be told by the blood on his breast, but not fatally. It only maddened him to stronger exertions.
Seeing Walter’s face at the entrance, the brute, with a fierce growl, sprung at him, with red jaws, white, wicked teeth, and a gleaming, bloodshot eye.
He was met half-way. As his fore-paws touched the barricade, Walter, exerting all his nerve and muscle, drove the keen-edged
bowie into his breast—exactly in the bullet-hole. There was a maniacal, gasping snarl, a convulsive movement of the feet, a rapid quivering throughout his body, and the bloodhound fell to the ground, stone dead.
Katie was frightened as Walter drew back his knife and slowly wiped it on the vine-leaves. She had never before seen a brave man at bay —she had never seen such a fierce, passionate, and at the same time cool and resolute look upon his face. His wrath was majestic— he was a brave man at bay, battling for the one he loved.
His attention was quickly drawn to the approaching enemy by the sight of a thickset man at the head of the column, which was coming at Indian-file. He was short and squat, and his sable face proclaimed his Ethiopian origin.
Could he be mistaken? He knew he was not mistaken. It was Cato the Creeper, and beside him walked Captain Downing.
To see was to act with Walter. It was a life and death struggle now.
A stream of fire blazed from the barricade, a puff of smoke arose, and Cato the Creeper, with a wild cry, tossed his arms aloft and fell to the ground, a bullet driven into his brain. Cato the Creeper had followed his last trail.
Completely surprised and astounded at the sudden discharge and its fatal effect, the bandits flew to cover, where they remained quiet and talked in whispers. How many men were behind that screen? Downing, Fink, and another man were close together in a dense thicket.
After canvasing matters, it was decided to make a rush—Downing feeling certain that only the young settler was there with the girl. The signal for a rush was to be the discharge of the captain’s revolver, when every man was to press forward on a run.
Soon a sharp report rung out, and simultaneously every sturdy ruffian sprung from his cover, and rushed, gun and knife in hand, toward the vines, yelling and swearing as they did so.
Foremost came Captain Downing, ahead of his men; next came Parks and Fink, all three being somewhat in advance.
Walter saw his arch-enemy, and full of rage and desire for revenge, raised his gun and took a steady aim at him. But, just as his hand was hard-pressing the trigger, Downing slipped, and stumbling, fell headlong.
It was too late to hold his fire; Downing had scarcely dropped when the bullet, speeding through the air where Downing’s head had been, went on its way and lodged in the brain of Parks, killing him instantly. The robber dropped without a groan, and Fink, pressing on close behind, stumbled over him.
The remaining robbers, seeing three men prostrate, imagined there had been a simultaneous volley from the vines, which had felled their leaders. They stopped and hesitated.
But only for a moment. The leaders soon righted themselves, Downing regaining his feet first. With a wild, profane oath he darted on, beside himself with rage.
The men followed. Walter, knowing a critical and almost hopeless crisis had come, threw down his gun, and brandishing the keen bowie, awaited their attack.
It came. The robbers, anticipating an easy victory, rushed against the barrier, supposing it would give to their combined weight and momentum. But the vines were tough and strong, and though the robbers dashed in a body upon them they resisted the shock. They swayed, bent, and creaked, but, with their natural elasticity, immediately returned to their natural position.
“Cut through the accursed vines!” howled Downing, white with rage. “Cut through them! No quarter to the villain inside! Cut his throat the minute you get at him!”
Drawing his knife, he set the example by cutting wildly and violently. Fortunate it was for Walter the vines were tough and thick—fortunate it was for him that he had an open space behind him to fight in.
“Get behind that log, yonder, Kate!” ordered Walter “Else you may get hit by a bullet.”
She obeyed. Now danger had come, now that an imminent crisis had arrived, she, though pale, was calm and collected. Disregarding his command to lie still, she seized his abandoned gun, and lying behind the log, attempted to reload it. But she had no ammunition—it was hanging to Walter’s shoulder.
Slipping up behind him, she quickly took off his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, then retreated to the log and loaded the gun, finding caps in the pouch. Then she watched her lover with the eye of a lynx.
He stood behind the only tree in his “fort,” watching, with snapping eyes, the robbers as they energetically worked at the vines. Cutting and twisting, they worked hard and swiftly, and soon Walter could see their hands protruding through the leaves.
One hand in particular he noticed—a brown, horny hand, huge in dimensions. A thought struck him. Creeping softly within easy striking distance, he raised his knife, and taking a sure, deliberate aim, struck it with all his force. At the same time Fink, outside, cried aloud, and drawing his arm hastily back from his task, exposed it to view.
His arm was without its natural appendage—the hand had gone at the wrist.
The blood flowed so freely that directly he became faint, and staggering to an adjacent log, sat down upon it, with a very white face. The others desisted, and looking at him, now became chary of their own hands, knowing the danger they ran in inserting them through the leaves.
Downing, hearing the clamor, stopped in his frenzied work, and walked up to Fink.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. Fink held his hand to his view. With a fierce oath he cried:
“We must get him. One hundred dollars to the man that kills him— five hundred to the man that takes him alive.”
The men needed no other stimulus. With one accord they returned to their task; and then they worked like tigers—cutting and twisting. However, they were chary of their hands—the example before them was too potent to be disregarded; and though working hard, they observed great caution.
They had not much longer to work before they could reach him. To prevent his escaping, men were sent to the rear of the knoll, with orders not to harm him, but to take him alive if possible. Walter’s chances were few indeed.
And now a cry came from one of the most industrious—he had opened quite a breach.
The outlaws were quite near the close of their respective tasks, and, fearing to lose the reward, worked like men for their lives.
The man who had opened his breach, becoming reckless, at once plunged through, knife in hand. It was Jack Dark, the ferryman.
His recklessness and eagerness proved his death. Met half-way in the narrow gap by Walter, he had no time to turn, no time to strike or defend himself.
The glistening steel flashed in the air; the sturdy arm descended, and with the blood spirting from his heart, Dark fell limp and lifeless in his own gap, completely obstructing it.
Walter drew the reeking blade from the body, and was about to wield another blow, when a faint shriek came to his ears—the voice of Katie.
Like lightning he turned toward her. She was crouching behind the log, partially upright, pointing with white face to another part of the barrier
Walter followed her gaze, and saw a robber half through the vines. He darted toward him.
The other saw him coming, and endeavored to spring through, but his foot was fast in the vine. Then he endeavored to draw back; but too late.
Once more the steel flashed in mid-air, and the terror-stricken bandit, looking up, saw it descend like a flash. The next moment, he was a corpse.
“Four men down!” shrieked Downing, now completely frenzied. “Kill him—kill him!”
Simultaneously, the men drew back a few paces, and then each one rushed for the breach he had made.
Walter saw one man burst through with a yell; the next moment he was upon him in close conflict.
Katie saw two more burst through, and, alive with fear raised the gun and fired at the foremost.
The aim was true; with a horrible oath, he fell, mortally wounded.
The other, disregarding her, rushed by her, toward Walter, who was fighting desperately with his adversary, a small, wiry fellow, with the activity of a cat and the muscle of a bear.
She saw the last man hurry on with gun ready for instant use; she saw others burst through the vines, with bloodshot eyes and inflamed passions; she saw, as she thought, Walter fall, wounded unto death, and knew no more.
As the whole gang effected an entrance and came rushing on Walter, he succeeded in dealing his antagonist a fatal blow in the side. He fell, with the blood surging from the wound.
At this critical moment, a loud cry came from the knoll above—a loud hurrah—then a succession of rapid shots and cries of pain; then another hurrah!
“Hold up, Walt! Keep cool!” came in ringing tones close by. Then came another voice, louder and shriller:
“Charge, boys—charge! Give ’em fits!”
There was a rapid rush of feet from the hill above. The outlaws halted and looked up.
Down the steep hill came a dozen men with the velocity of the wind, to the rescue—the settlers, headed by Eben and the hunchback, had arrived!
Rolling, jumping, tumbling, on all fours, in their mad haste (for the hill was perpendicular), some with their hair flying and hats off, others with gigantic, reckless strides, down came the settlers to the rescue.
The outlaws looked up, halted in their murderous design, turned, then fled through the barrier—now a barrier no longer; and the brave young man was saved!
Of the outlaws, Captain Downing alone remained. Drawing a revolver from his belt, and with an oath, he presented it to the young man’s breast.
“Dog of a coward—die!” he yelled, and pulled the trigger.
Reckless act! In his excitement and frenzy, he pulled the trigger on an empty barrel. Before he could draw the hammer to insure his murderous deed, the hunchback tripped his feet from under him, and dealing him a blow with his fist at the same time, felled him to the ground.
Then, as the settlers went hurrying by in hot pursuit of the outlaws, and as Walter rushed to Katie, the deformed man grasped Downing by the throat.
“Dog—villain!” he hissed. “Do you know me?”
Downing’s face, though pale, grew paler still. The Voice was speaking to him—the same Voice he had recognized on the night that Katie escaped from his toils. He now recognized the man.
“James Dunning!” he gasped.
“Yes, Robert Davis—James Dunning, the man whom you abused, maltreated and crippled, is now your captor; the son of the rich banker in Charleston whom you murdered, is now your master; the man who has followed you, abetted your pursuers, foiled your
attempts, and, haunting the forest, has caused his voice to be heard at noonday and midnight, has you now in his power; and he will use that power.”
“Let me rise—let me go!” demanded Downing, vainly endeavoring to rise. “Unhand me, you villain!”
“Villain? Ha! you will bitterly regret that epithet, Robert Davis, mark my words, you will.”
“Let me up! What right have you to detain me in this manner?”
“Right? Look at that young girl yonder—she is insensible from fright, and all because of your misdeeds! Look at her father and lover beside her—many have been the torments they have undergone because of you! Look at the lifeless men lying here. They have ended their career upon earth in the midst of vile wickedness, because of you! Look at me, an orphaned and poverty-stricken son, and a cripple—yes, a cripple, deformed and ugly, because of you, and then ask me what right I have to detain you! You are mine— mine to do with as I will, and, as I told you before, I will use my power.”
He looked around on the scene, still keeping a secure hold on Downing. The settlers and outlaws were all gone, but they still kept up a scattering fire far away in the forest. Fink had bled to death; Cato lay lifeless on the ground; five dead robbers were stretched, grim and ghastly, upon the neighboring scene; and Katie, now just recovered, was weeping for joy in her father’s and lover’s arms.
His brow darkened, and he took a cord from his clothing and proceeded to bind Downing. The latter, struggling and fuming, proving a hard customer, he dealt him a blow between the eyes which rendered him incapable of any further resistance.
Then he bound him securely, and casting a last look around him, he took the unconscious robber chief in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. Then he walked away into the swamp just as the sun was setting—into Shadow Swamp, in Dead-Man’s Forest.
CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT THE GRAY WOLF SAW IN DEAD-MAN’S FOREST.
Little more remains to be told. When the gallant settlers, with the happy lovers under their escort, arrived at the settlement, they were joyfully greeted by their wives and daughters, Hettie among the rest. The outlaws were nearly all killed, and were entirely exterminated from their haunts. To Hettie’s dismay, nothing was ever heard of Downing, he having not been seen since the hunchback had felled him to the ground.
Much more the surprise at the hunchback’s odd appearance and disappearance, and for a long time it was the subject of fireside gossip and conjecture, until a wedding occurred which forever banished it. It is needless to say who the parties were, nor how very gay the company was, nor how blushing and happy the bride, and exultant the groom—the intelligent reader has, ere this, suspected it. But, it is, perhaps, necessary to state that, in time, Hettie lost her unfortunate attachment for the robber chief, and, suddenly discovering that Eben was a fine young man, yielded to his suit and became Mrs. Jacobs.
And so, after so much hard trial and pain, these hearts were at last happy. We can do nothing more for them, as their cup of joy is complete, so we bid them all good-by.
The moon looked palely down from the zenith upon Dead-Man’s Forest; it looked down in its steely light upon the swamp in the forest —Shadow Swamp.
Truly was it named Shadow Swamp—for in its quiet, ghostly mazes, a shadow was flitting to and fro across a glade—a glade, in the
center of which stood a tree—the terrible tree.
The shadow was that of a man—a cripple; and he was flitting in the midnight hour on some preconceived and arranged labor Dry sticks he gathered from the glade and carried to the tree, depositing them at the base. After he had collected a large quantity he changed his task—bringing limbs and pieces of dry logs to his pile. Then, again, he changed—this last time bringing larger limbs and branches and small logs, which he arranged on the summit of the others.
When he had completed his task to his satisfaction he chuckled in horrible delight; then he disappeared.
Shortly he returned—not alone; a man was with him—a captive. This could be seen by the thongs which bound him, by his pale face, and frightened, nervous air.
The hunchback led his captive to the tree, and placed him, back against it. Again that hideous chuckle rung out. The captive was standing in the center of the fagots, which the cripple piled closely around him, the pile reaching quite to his shoulders, leaving only his head visible. Then taking a cord from his clothing, he bound the prisoner closely to the tree. Then, stepping back, he contemplated his prisoner, and gave vent to a shrill, maniacal laugh.
“Ha!” he said, pacing softly to and fro before his prisoner, “The work is nearly done. Revenge is sweet—sweet!
“Yes,” he continued, “you are doomed. When the moon casts a shadow over your face, this dagger will be driven to your black heart, and the fagots will burn your foul body from the earth which detests it.
“In three minutes the shadow will cover your face. Robert Davis, have you any last words—any thing to say?”
The prisoner uttered no word—made no sign: but, tied securely to the tree, prepared to meet his doom.
“Once more, Robert Davis, have you any last message? That much will I do for you. I shall not speak again.”
No answer The shadow crept slowly down the tree toward the doomed man’s face.
All is quiet in Dead-Man’s Forest, to-night. The wild animals are still, and the night is calm. Still creeps the shadow down. To and fro paces the executioner, still watches the prisoner his captor. Still creeps the shadow.
A thousand fantastic shadows play about the moonlit glade, and the prisoner notes them mechanically. One in particular he watches—a shadow stealing on from the glade toward him.
What is it—an animal? Yes. Bear, perhaps? No. Perhaps an Indian? No; it is a gaunt, gray wolf. The prisoner asks and answers these questions, then looks at the cripple. Still creeps the shadow; still plods the moon; still all is silence in Dead-Man’s Forest.
The gray wolf creeps nearer and licks his chops cravingly as he peers at the prisoner. Perhaps he anticipates a repast—perhaps he does.
The shadow is obscuring the captive’s head now—part of it; in a few moments it will be down over his face. Still he watches the gray wolf, still the gray wolf watches him, and still creeps the shadow—down down, down!
Still the moon wanes; and shadows about the glade are slightly changed, now. The captor silently draws his knife, whetting it on his palm. The prisoner watches him quietly.
The gray wolf might be mistaken for a dog, sitting so near on his haunches; but he is still a hungry wolf.
Part of the face is in the shadow now—only a portion; but the captor still whets the knife, while the prisoner quietly watches him.
The gray wolf howls mournfully as the shadow entirely clouds the white, bleak face.
The captor strikes a light among the lighter fagots; they blaze up, brightly The flames quickly communicate with the other and larger fagots. They are dry and will burn until exhausted. The prisoner scowls.
There is a sudden movement of the captor’s arm; a bright, steely glimmer is in mid air; there is a dull blow and the sound of gurgling blood; and the gray wolf howls mournfully.
A figure, misshapen and deformed, glides over the glade, into the forest, and vanishes in silence; a gray wolf stalks up to a man in the midst of a burning pile; he sees a dagger in the man’s heart, and the man’s head is on his shoulder; he is alone with the dead.
Howling at the fire, he turns and trots reluctantly away from its crackle and blaze and its glaring light; and all is quiet in Dead-Man’s Forest.
Transcriber’s Notes
A number of typographical errors were corrected silently
Cover image is in the public domain.
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